


Giving Gifts, a Hamish Watson-Holmes story

by nickelsandcoats



Series: Christmas at the Watson-Holmeses [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:49:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Hamish, John, and Sherlock give out gifts, go ice skating, and wait for Christmas morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giving Gifts, a Hamish Watson-Holmes story

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Hamish Watson-Holmes, created by valeria2067 [here](http://valeria2067.tumblr.com/post/11679232191/hamish-a-sherlock-john-ficlet-pairing). For more Hamish stories, go [here](http://hamish-watson-holmes.tumblr.com/)

Sherlock started as a loud crash came from the sitting room. John was at the surgery, Hamish had been upstairs working on something (the Keep out Working on Present sign firmly attached to his door), and Sherlock had taken the rare gift of privacy and quiet to work on a few experiments. But now he had to investigate the noise from the sitting room—there were no screams, so if it was Hamish, at least he wasn’t hurt.

He strode into the room just in time to see Hamish, standing on a very precarious stack of books, stretch up in an effort to reach the mantel.

“Hamish Malcolm Watson-Holmes!” Sherlock cried, causing Hamish to gasp in alarm as the stack of books wobbled and he lost his balance, small arms flailing as he scrambled for something to hold on to.

Sherlock was across the room in less than two strides, catching his son just before he hit the ground. They sank down to the floor in an graceless heap, Hamish’s elbow jabbing Sherlock in the stomach.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked, running his hands over Hamish’s small body to check for damage. Large watery blue eyes met his as Hamish nodded, bringing his hand up to tug at his ear in a nervous gesture. “How many times do your Dad and I have to tell you that you’re not to try climbing up on things? If you want something, come and ask, and we’ll get it for you. You could have broken your arm or your leg, and then you’d be in a cast for Christmas. That would make it hard to go ice skating on Christmas Eve, wouldn’t it?”

Hamish wouldn’t meet his eyes as he nodded.

“Hey,” Sherlock gently pushed his son’s chin up with one finger. “No one was hurt, and I’m only upset because you could have been hurt. Do you understand?” Another nod. “Good. Now, what is it you wanted?”

“I wanted the Santa hat. Dad said we could go deliver Aunt Sarah’s and Aunt Molly’s Christmas gifts today, and I wanted to wear the hat.”

Sherlock lifted Hamish up as he stood and leaned down so Hamish could pluck the hat off of the skull. He stuck it on Sherlock’s head, having to shove it down to get it over his father’s unruly curls.

At that moment, John walked in and started giggling. Sherlock turned in surprise and groaned as he heard the click of John’s mobile’s camera. “Just wait until I show that to the Yarders,” John said as he grinned.

Sherlock looked at Hamish. Hamish looked at his father. “Tickle fight? To avenge Father’s honor?” Sherlock asked solemnly, a twinkle in his eye.

Hamish grinned and squirmed out of his father’s arms.

Together, they advanced on John, who was alternately giggling and gasping out pleas for mercy at such a rate he could hardly catch his breath. Ten minutes later, Sherlock declared himself sufficiently avenged. He picked up the abandoned Santa hat and clapped it on Hamish’s head and looked at John. “I hear we have presents to deliver?”

John, still breathless, nodded. “As soon as we eat some lunch. Sarah’s expecting us around two, and Molly said she’d be at the morgue until five.”

  
An hour and a half later, properly bundled up against the cold, Sherlock, John, and Hamish were walking down the street towards the clinic. John had found Hamish a sack from somewhere, and with the sack in hand, bulging with gifts, Santa hat clamped down firmly over his curls, Hamish was getting lots of smiles from passersby as the little family walked slowly down the pavement.

Finally, John pulled open the door, and Hamish jumped over the threshold, the bobble on his hat swinging merrily.

“Hi, Eris!” he exclaimed as the receptionist looked up at their sudden entrance. Her face transformed as a grin lit her face.

“Hello, Mr. Watson-Holmes. Or should I call you Santa?”

Hamish ran up to her and gave her a hug. “Just Hamish, Eris. Is Aunt Sarah free?”

Eris hugged him back and said “Let me see” as she clicked a few keys. “Looks like it. Do you want to head on back?”

“Yeah! Don’t call and tell her we’re here. I want to surprise her.” Hamish started off down the hall, Sherlock at his heels.

“Thanks, Eris,” John said as he followed them down the hall to Sarah’s office, where Hamish was already knocking.

Sarah opened the door and gave a surprised “Hello!” as Hamish threw his arms around her legs in greeting.

“We brought you your presents, Aunt Sarah,” Hamish proclaimed as he let go of her and edged between her and the door, carefully sitting the sack on the floor in front of her desk. He rummaged through it and pulled out two packages and turned to look at his parents and Sarah.

“Here!” he said, holding the presents out.

“Why, thank you,” Sarah said as she sat in her chair, presents on her lap. “Which should I open first?”

“Open the one from Dad and Father first,” Hamish said, sitting cross-legged on the floor as his parents sat on the exam table.

Sarah carefully unwrapped the small box and squealed with delight when she pulled out a pair of tickets for the next National Theatre production. “Thank you! Oh, how did you know I wanted to see this? This is far too much!”

Sherlock smirked and John smiled, waving off her gratitude.

She opened the book from Hamish and grinned as she read the title. “Thank you so much, Hamish! I’ve been wanting to read this one for a while now, and just never got around to getting it.” She leaned down and kissed his head, which made him blush and squirm.

“Now, I have some things for the three of you,” she said and opened her desk drawer, pulling out two brightly wrapped packages.

Hamish’s gift was a set of anatomy flashcards, complete with a hefty book to go along with them. Hamish beamed and immediately started flipping through them, entranced.

For John and Sherlock, Sarah had got a voucher for a new restaurant—“One I know you don’t have a contact at, Sherlock,” she’d said—and a promise to watch Hamish for a night so they could use it.

After another round of thanks and hugs, the three of them left the clinic and got a cab to the morgue, where Molly greeted them with a grin. She waggled her gloved hands and said, “No hugs just yet, let me get these off.” Molly returned a moment later and swept Hamish up in a hug, smacking a kiss on his cheek.

“What have you got today, Molly?” Sherlock asked, leaning around her to see what she had been working on.

“Nothing exciting. Stroke victim.”

Sherlock pouted a bit. Hamish tugged on Molly’s coat and said, “I have presents for you!” He reached in and pulled out the last two gifts, handing them over with a flourish.

Molly cooed over the box set of the latest series of _Doctor Who_ from Sherlock and John and immediately put the tea from Hamish into her office stash. Then she unwrapped the mug, and Sherlock snatched it from her hand almost before she even got a glimpse of it.

“Where did you get this?” Sherlock demanded as he held the mug to his chest.

John grinned. “Hamish picked it out from an online shop. Give it back to Molly; you can pick one out for yourself if you want one so badly. They had others.”

Sherlock reluctantly handed over the mug, and Molly smiled her thanks.

“Thank you all so much!” she said, bestowing kisses all around (Sherlock grimaced and wiped at his cheek) before asking, “Any exciting plans for Christmas Eve tomorrow?”

“We’re going ice skating and then Aunt Harry’s coming to visit.”

“Oooh, that sounds like fun.” Molly’s phone started ringing. “Oh, I have to get that. Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, Molly,” they chorused.

Hamish woke them the next morning by snuggling in between them, complaining of being cold. Sherlock tucked him in close and the three of them fell asleep again, waking only once John’s alarm rang. Hamish popped awake in an instant, crying, “Ice skating!”

“Yes, yes, yes. Let’s get up first, and eat a bit of something before we go,” John mumbled, still half-asleep.

Forty-five minutes later, they were standing in line at the small ice rink set up in Regent’s Park. Hamish was bouncing with excitement, cheeks pink with the cold and the exertion. Skates in hand, they sat on one of the small benches and put them on, leaving their shoes in a small cubby. John stepped cautiously out on the ice first, then turned and held out a hand for Hamish, who gingerly stepped down, his other hand tightly gripped by Sherlock, who followed him.

They skated slowly at first, Hamish held between them, until the boy learned how to balance and push himself along. Finally, Hamish let go of John’s hand, then Sherlock’s, and skated (albeit a bit shakily) on his own, falling over every few minutes until finally he was skating as confidently as his parents.

After an hour, John insisted on a break, and he and Hamish carefully stepped off the ice. Sherlock stopped at the small stand selling hot chocolates that was right at the entrance to the rink and bought three, carefully walking back to the bench with his burden. John took two off of him and handed one to Hamish, reminding him to blow on it to cool it before drinking it.

Sherlock sat down and sipped carefully at his own drink, watching Hamish watch the skaters twirling in the centre of the rink. Once they were finished, John kissed off the foam still clinging to Sherlock’s lips and turned back to his son. “Ready to go again?”

“Just for a little bit,” Hamish said, yawning. “I’m getting a bit sleepy.”

Another twenty minutes on the ice, and Sherlock called a halt, noticing that Hamish’s legs were starting to falter. He and John took hold of his hands and led him off the ice. John knelt down and carefully removed the skates. Sherlock easily scooped Hamish up; his son laid his head on his shoulder and nodded off as they walked home, John holding Sherlock’s free hand.

Sherlock took Hamish straight up the stairs and laid him gently in his bed, drawing the covers up to his chin. Hamish stirred a bit and resettled on his side, one hand tucked under his pillow, the other reaching for and finding Boswell. Sherlock nudged the bear a little closer and Hamish let out a happy sigh in his sleep. He stood there for a long moment, watching his son sleep, before John came in and wrapped his arms around his waist.

“I’m knackered too,” John said through a yawn. “C’mon, let’s go to bed. You know he’ll have us up at the crack of dawn tomorrow, so we should sleep when we can.”

Sherlock nodded and let John lead him away, but they paused at the door and looked back at their son, lying peacefully in his bed.

“I wish we could keep him like this forever,” John whispered.

“I know.”

Later that afternoon, after naps and a late lunch, the three of them went downstairs to deliver their gifts to Mrs. Hudson. She gave all three of her boys hugs and kisses in thanks, before handing Hamish his own gift—a new baking set, including a mixing spoon, mixing bowl, measuring cups and spoons, and a baking sheet. She handed him a glass jar that was full of the premixed dry ingredients for chocolate chip biscuits and said, “For you to practice your baking with, dear. You were such a good helper a few weeks ago that I just knew you’d be a great baker if you had some proper equipment.”

Sherlock and John shot her panicked looks over Hamish’s head, and she winked in return. Hamish immediately demanded to make the biscuits that night, but was quickly overruled by his parents, who still had nightmares about the last baking experiment Hamish had conducted.

Hamish and Sherlock stayed with Mrs. Hudson for the rest of the afternoon (John didn’t want them underfoot as he finished cooking dinner for Harry and picked up the last few things in the flat) and watched old Christmas movies on the telly with her until John sent Sherlock a text telling them to come back up.

Harry had come in while they were still downstairs, and there were hugs for Hamish and Sherlock before the boy was allowed to go get her gifts.

Her eyes welled up a bit at her gift from Hamish, who said, “You painted such pretty pictures, Aunt Harry, that I thought you might like to start painting again.”

“Thank you, Hamish,” she said, wiping away a few discreet tears, “You are right—I miss painting.”

Hamish snuggled with her on the sofa until John called them in for dinner.

When Harry left a few hours later, John and Sherlock looked at each other and nodded.

“Hal?” John called.

Hamish came careening back downstairs. “Yes, Dad?”

Sherlock grinned at him and said, “You’ve one present hidden somewhere in this room. Stand right there and look around. You can look at anything and touch anything you can reach without moving from that spot. Where is it?”

Two minutes later, Hamish deduced that it was hidden under the throw on John’s chair. John smiled and fished out a small, flat package and handed it over. Hamish, with a glance at his parents for permission, tore off the paper and gave a whoop of joy.

“Thank you!” he cried as he hugged them both in turn. “Can I read it tonight?”

“You may,” Sherlock said, “But no staying up late. Deal?”

Hamish nodded, eyes bright, clutching the book on beginners’ beekeeping to his chest. “Good night!” he said, pulling on his parents’ clothes to get them to lean down for kisses.

“Brush your teeth!” John yelled after him as Hamish ran up the stairs.

“I will!”

  
An hour later, John put down the roll of wrapping paper he’d been using and, with a nod from Sherlock, who had cellotape stuck to his fingers, snuck up the stairs and carefully pushed open the door to Hamish’s room. His son was sprawled on his back, arms and legs akimbo, Boswell tucked up against his side. The book and the torch he’d been using rested on his chest. John crossed the room and carefully placed a scrap of paper as a bookmark before laying the book on his desk and clicked off the torch. Hamish didn’t stir, not even when John leaned down and kissed his cheek.

Sherlock’s breath tickled his cheek as John straightened, and he bit back a startled curse. “I finished wrapping,” Sherlock breathed. “You just need to put the labels on.”

John nodded. Sherlock let him go just long enough to bend down and kiss Hamish good night before leading John out of the room. They put the final touches on the gifts and laid them out carefully under the tree.

They stepped back and looked at their handiwork, wrapping their arms around each other.

Sherlock looked down at John and kissed him sweetly. “Bed?”

“Bed.”

They curled up together, Sherlock’s chest to John’s back, and slept pressed close together, keeping out the chill as snow drifted down outside.

  
Part V


End file.
